The Phantom Horsewoman
by FluteKahlanChambers
Summary: “…for one of the first times in his life that he could remember, he cried.” Answer to the darkones LJ Weekly Challenge.


Title: The Phantom Horsewoman

Author: FluteKahlanChambers

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: none

Character: Snape

Summary: "…for one of the first times in his life that he could remember, he cried." Answer to the darkones LJ Weekly Challenge.

Disclaimer: I don't the characters, places, or the poem. They belong to J.K. Rowling and Thomas Hardy.

_ Queer are the ways of a man I know:_

_He comes and stands_

_In a careworn craze, _

_And looks at the sands _

_And the seaward haze_

_With moveless hands_

_And face and gaze, _

_Then turns to go…_

_And what does he see when he gazes so _

The black-haired man, standing tall and dignified as he strode through the ancient cemetery, with measured steps, he passed the gravestones marking right and left where such brave heroes had fallen once upon a time. He held no interest in these, what concerned him was further along. Finally stopping beneath a great old willow tree, he paused and suddenly the memories came rushing back to him.

_They say he sees an instant thing_

_More clear than to-day, _

_A sweet soft scene_

_That once was in play_

_By that briny green;_

_Yes, notes always_

_Warm, real, and keen, _

_What his back years bring- _

_A phantom of his own figuring.  
_

He sees them, relaxing underneath this self-same tree, hidden away from the prying eyes of the populace in general. He sees them playing and picnicking underneath the tree's shade, making large amounts of daisy chains, and the laughter. He remembers the laughter most of all. The bubbly sound of pure joy that emanated from her perfect little rosebud lips, the impish grin on her insufferably cute face, the twinkle in her little green eye, and her short and messy dark brown hair. That was what he remembered best of all about his angel. He had no idea of why this was, but for some inexplicable reason the vision of her was most vivid here. She was almost tangible.

_ Of this vision of his they might say more:_

_Not only there_

_Does he see this sight,_

_But everywhere_

_In his brain-day, night, _

_As if on the air_

_It were drawn rose bright- _

_Yea, far from that shore_

_Does he carry this vision of heretofore _

It wasn't just here that he saw her; she was with him everywhere he went. She affected everything he did, everyone he saw or helped. Her essence had given him a new purpose, a real reason to keep going on after the war when he'd been so tired, so soul-weary that it wouldn't have taken much for him to surrender to the urge to just give it all up and die. She brought joy back into his life, something he hadn't known since he'd been a baby. She taught him how to smile again, how to sit back and just laugh. She taught him how to really enjoy his life. He'd been in the pits of despair and she'd just burst in like a little ray of sunshine and changed his life completely. He missed her more than anything and after she'd been taken from him, it had been a good while before he'd been able to function in an even remotely normal manner. At first, he'd shut himself off from the rest of the world, simply unable to come to the terms that she was in fact, gone. He wouldn't eat, couldn't sleep, all he'd done was sit in her precious little bedroom, the one they'd had so much fun decorating and just stare blankly at the walls. It'd been his old school nemesis that had finally gotten fed up with his so-called 'martyr complex' and had had the stones to beat some sense into that thick skull of his.

And for one of the first times in his life that he could remember, he cried. He just broke down completely and cried and cried until he had no more tears left to spend. Then he'd slept for the first time in more years that he cared to remember, he slept without nightmares. That to him was precious beyond words, since he'd been a young boy he'd always suffered from nightmares and it'd not gotten any better with age.

_A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, _

_He withers daily, _

_Time touches her not, _

_But she still rides gaily_

_In his rapt thought_

_On that shagged and shaly _

_Atlantic spot, _

_And as when first eyed_

_Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.  
_

Jerking himself out of his memories, he carefully laid the wildflowers on the small gravestone and kneeled to lay a tender kiss on the name inscribed there.

"I love you, little one." And with that he turned and strode quickly out of the cemetery before the tears could overtake him. As he left, a small, still voice floated in on the light breeze blowing through the trees, "I love you too, Daddy."

Dusk settled on the ancient cemetery, the last rays of sunlight illuminating one marker in particular, the elegant inscription reading:

_ **Jaenelle Marie Snape **  
_

"_For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come -_

_She was the stuff that such dreams were made on." _

_Forever missed and forever loved. _

_She was her father's light when all others had gone out._

_b. May 1, 2000 d. September 8, 2005  
_


End file.
